


That Guy Sure Looks Like Plant Food To Me

by MovesLikeBucky



Series: Forever Is Our Today [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Mild Gore, Near Death, now with art!, warning for blood in the image
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-24 10:36:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21098081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MovesLikeBucky/pseuds/MovesLikeBucky
Summary: Aziraphale gasps in shock at what he sees.The entire apartment – floor, ceiling, walls, furniture, even the tv – is covered in a jungle of creeping English ivy.  At a glance, it looks to just be growing over the surfaces.  But as he looks closer, Aziraphale notes that most of the things the ivy covers are being squeezed and are cracking under the pressure of the vines.He almost has time to think about how unusual this is.He would have had time, if it weren’t for the creeping vine now wrapped around his ankle yanking him unceremoniously into the flat before the door slams behind him.If only he’d taken the time to look down.





	That Guy Sure Looks Like Plant Food To Me

**Author's Note:**

> Oh man this is the first M rated fic I've ever done, and honestly I only rated it that as a precaution. There is some gore in this, I don't think it gets super bad but just to be on the safe side I rated this M.
> 
> There's a shoutout I need to make to a fic by my best friend TheTalkingPeanut called "[Meanwhile](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19253623/chapters/45786343)" because I kind of stole her Ozzy joke from chapter 3 of that xD. Go read it!
> 
> The plants featured here are the same plants from "[All The Idle Weeds that Grow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20887436)" if you wanna know more about them, head there! It's a much fluffier fic than this one >_>
> 
> This one is for the Ineffable Outliers Discord weekly prompt, "Crowley's been missing for days. Aziraphale goes to look for him, worried sick, and finds the flat full of plants. And something feels hungry."
> 
> This fic also takes place in the "Forever is Our Today" series.
> 
> I'll play a game with you all called spot the references! I'll list them in the end notes, but I won't tell you where they are.
> 
> And now we have some lovely [cover art](https://twitter.com/Ran196242/status/1232294026641936386) by the amazingly talented Callus Ran whom I love with all my heart <3 Go check out her [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Ran196242) and [Tumblr](https://twitter.com/Ran196242)!

**_Friday October 30th, 1987. 9:13pm_ **

_Click, click, click!_

The soles of Aziraphale’s shoes clicked loudly as he hurried through the streets of Mayfair, only one destination in mind. It was dark and dreary, as was wont for London, but tonight felt even more so. The angel had never put much stock in the spookiness of October, but he may have to rethink that position after today. The mist that hung heavy, blurring the outline of the lampposts, softening the headlights of the passing cars, was giving everything a hazy and ghostly appearance.

This was not helped by the fact that he hadn’t heard from Crowley in over a week.

This, alone, wouldn’t have been anything to file in a report. They’d gone entire millennia without speaking in the past, though the gaps had been decreasing steadily since Mesopotamia. Now it was rare to go a month without a phone call.

No, a week still shouldn’t have been strange. But the feeling of foreboding that had draped itself over Aziraphale’s shoulders like a well-worn scarf was enough to get him worried. Not that it ever took _much _to get him worried in the first place.

And thus, here he finds himself, hurrying through Mayfair to a flat that he may or may not have the correct address to, to check on a demon that may or may not want to see him.

He finds Crowley’s last known address and ascends the staircase, finding the flat that he’s sure belongs to the demon.

He goes to knock, but before he can he notices the door open just an inch or two. He hesitates, but only for a second.

“Crowley?” he calls through the gap, not wanting to overstep by actually opening the door.

The only sound is that of rustling.

“Crowley? Are you there?”

He waits, no answer. Still the rustling, but it’s getting louder.

“Crowley, this really isn’t funny,” the angel shouts with more than a bit of a tremble in his voice, “You answer me right now or I’m coming in!”

At this Aziraphale stomps his foot. If only he’d looked down, he might have noticed.

“Fine!” He shouts, “But I warned you!”

The angel pushes the door and is greeted with complete darkness. He rolls his eyes and snaps his fingers, manifesting light in the living room.

Aziraphale gasps in shock at what he sees.

The entire apartment – floor, ceiling, walls, furniture, even the tv – is _covered_ in a jungle of creeping English ivy. At a glance, it looks to just be growing over the surfaces. But as he looks closer, Aziraphale notes that most of the things the ivy covers are being squeezed and are cracking under the pressure of the vines.

He almost has time to think about how unusual this is. 

He would have had time, if it weren’t for the creeping vine now wrapped around his ankle yanking him unceremoniously into the flat before the door slams behind him.

If only he’d taken the time to look down.

___

  
** _Tuesday October 27th, 1987. 4:45pm_ **

Crowley sped through the streets in his Bentley, “Don’t Stop Me Now” blaring at full volume whether he wanted it to or not.

Four times this week, and it’s only Tuesday.

_Four bloody times_ he’d driven past the bookshop, contemplated going in, and then just didn’t.

What if Aziraphale didn’t want to see him? What if he wore out his welcome? What if all of this was for nothing and he ended up right back where he started?

Crowley let out a noise that was more of a snarl than a scream but could’ve easily been mistaken for one.

Twenty years he’d been doing this dance. Twenty goddamn years. Slowly inching the time between meetings closer together, hoping to go unnoticed. So far so good, but now he was nervous.

Because, you see, it’s a rule of Crowley’s life that the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry. He didn’t know much about mice and he wasn’t actually a _man_ per say, but the rule applied to him anyway.

He’d gotten too close, and now he couldn’t pull back. The better part of five millennia spent pining and longing and now that Aziraphale had _asked_ him to go slow, all he could do was step on the gas.

“Blasted, bloody IDIOT!” He screeched as he tore through Piccadilly Circus making a beeline for his flat. He hadn’t been there in a few days and he knew the plants needed to be kept in line1.

Or at least that’s what he told himself. Gave him a plausible reason to stay away from the angel.

The gap had been squeezed to a miniscule month, barely a blip in the radar to an immortal occult being. But he couldn’t stop himself, he wanted more. It had barely been three days since they went out to one of those new little sushi places that had popped up in Soho, and all Crowley could think of was going somewhere with his – no, not _his_ – with _the_ angel again.

It all felt rather pathetic, really. But he was used to that at this point.

He pulled into his (illegal) parking spot and slammed the door when he got out. It knew better than to break; Bentley _always _knew better2.

He was just starting to get into a really good and comfortable sulk when he noticed something sitting right outside the main doors. An English ivy that was very much worse for wear.

Crowley would never _admit_ to caring about plants. He’d never admit to using gardening as an escape from his thoughts. He’d _certainly_ never admit he’d been at it for about 6000 years now.

He’d also never admit he really did care about his plants; and that care sometimes extended to ones that had obviously been mistreated. He paused, staring down at the wilting plant.

“Hell’s sake, what the fuck have they done to you?”

It looked like it hadn’t had a proper watering in a month; possibly even longer since it’s last good stern talking to. Nope, this wouldn’t do. And it’s not like anyone was concerned about it, they’d left it sitting outside like yesterday’s newspaper.

Maybe if he’d thought about it for a minute, he’d have realized just how odd finding an abandoned plant outside his building actually was.

But then we wouldn’t have a story to tell.

___

  
** _Wednesday October 28th, 1987. 3:30pm_ **

“Well, not to be my own biggest fan, but it seems you’re coming along nicely, Cassius.”

In only a day, the ivy had perked up from its browned and wilted state and was now standing tall and lovely in the main plant room alongside the others.

“You lot could learn a thing or two from this one,” Gardener said to the other inhabitants of the room. “You’ll have to work a bit harder now that there’s fresh blood around. Or…er…fresh chlorophyll. Whatever you wanna call it.” 

Gardener made his way around the room, misting the plants as he went, muttering encouragement thinly disguised as threats. The dracaena bristled in a way only a potted tree can.

“Oy, what’s wrong with you then? Jealous of the newbie here?” Gardener smirked at it, leaning in close and lowering his voice, “The one bit of advice I have for you then…”

Gardener smiled a crooked smile with too many teeth, and shouted directly into the dracaena’s leaves, “is to GROW BETTER!”

He tossed the spray bottle unceremoniously onto the little side table and then slammed the door on his way out.

With the threat of Gardener no longer looming over their heads, the plants did as they always had, and relaxed into conversation.

_I wish he wouldn’t shout directly into my leaves, all the good it does. He does know we don’t have ears, right?_

_Well maybe if you weren’t so stupid, _a dieffenbachia by the name of Hamlet piped up from the opposite corner, _all shuddery and such while he’s obviously in a mood._

_How the heaven was I supposed to know he was in a ‘mood’, seemed happy enough to me!_

_Benedick, I used to respect dracaena as a species, but you my friend have opened my eyes to how tiresome and frustrating you lot can be._

_Well that’s a bit of a generalization iddn’ it? What’d I ever do to you, eh?_

_As though it’s not obvious; sulking around like a petulant child all day bringing everyone else around you down– _

_Well at least I’m not Captain Prissy Leaves, _Benedick interrupted, _‘Look at meeee I’m so prissy and ethereal I’ll tell anyone who asks that I’m so fucking special’._

_Now see here, _if a plant were able to look annoyed, that is what Hamlet looked like now,_ you absolute cad, I’ll have you know– _

_Enough!_

The commanding presence of Eve silenced them as it always did, _We have other issues right now, can you not sense it?_

_Sense…what exactly? _asked Benedick.

_Something, _Eve whispered as they snaked a tendril towards their new flatmate, _Is very off about our new friend here._

_What do you mean, Eve? Seems the same as any other plant Gardener’s ever brought home._

_On the surface, yes Hamlet, maybe they do, _Eve’s vine crept around the base of the pot, trying to get a better read of the roots held inside. Roots were the key to a plant’s entire life structure, if they’d been messed with, that’s where the power would reside.

If Gardener, Sunshine, or any of Gardener’s demon acquaintances had ever taken the time to truly examine any of the three of them, they’d be able to feel the occult (ethereal, in Hamlet’s case) energy seeping into the world through their roots.

_This ivy is already imbued with a formidable amount of occult energy._

_But how, _asked Hamlet, _they’ve only been with us a day, takes much longer than that for Gardener to imprint on them._

_I don’t trust like this, _Benedick remarked softly.

_You don’t trust anything, you old fool, _Hamlet snapped back at them.

_Its energy is stronger than yours, Benedick, _Eve said, _maybe stronger than mine. I’ve never sensed power from another plant quite like this before. Surprised they aren’t trying to communicate._

_Maybe they’re just biding their time until they strike and kill us all!_

_Oh, don’t be silly, Benedick, I’m sure they’re harmless,_ remarked Hamlet, ever the optimist.

_The one thing I know is, we’ll have to keep a leaf turned toward this one, _Eve said thoughtfully, _Curious, very curious indeed._

_____

_  
**Friday October 30th, 1987. 10:05pm** _

_Sunshine…_

As Aziraphale came to he was only vaguely aware of where he was. He was also aware of a small but deep and earthy voice calling out the same word over and over.

_Sunshine…_

He tried to piece together what had happened as best he could, which was difficult as he was dangling upside down by one ankle.

_Sunshine…_

Hadn’t heard from Crowley, ok yes. 

_Sunshine!_

Got worried, probably overreacting, but that’s fair.

_Sunshine!_

Came to his flat, yes remember that. Still that earthy voice keeps on.

_SUNSHINE!_

Door was open, called out, no answer and then…

_Sunshine, you have to wake up, Gardener needs you!_

“Ivy!” He exclaimed upon waking fully, the remnants of the small earthy voice still clattering around his brain. All he knew in his heart was that Crowley _must_ be in trouble.

Not that he could do anything, he was still upside down. He looked towards his ankle and saw that it was still entwined by the ivy that had grabbed him from the hallway. Quite tightly actually, rather inconvenient if he must admit.

But it was ivy that he recognized.

He allowed his eyes a moment to adjust to the low light of the moon coming in through the floor to ceiling windows. Once they had, he realized that the room he was in was decidedly _not _covered in ivy.

And it was the only room where that might’ve made sense. He was suspended above the ground in Crowley’s plant room.

“What in Heaven’s name is going on in here,” he muttered quite to himself. Quite at the same time, the ivy with the hold on his ankle gently lowered him to the ground, releasing him and then coiling back to its source. He heard a rustling from behind and turned his head to see Crowley’s ancient Devil’s Ivy plant was the one who’d been holding him hostage.

“Eve, is it, my dear?” He stammered as he regained his bearings and stood, “What on Earth happened, and why is the flat filled with ivy?”

The angel’s thoughts were interrupted by a cracking and splintering sound. He turned towards the door and noticed that the stone was starting to form fissures.

“It’s trying to get in,” he swallowed hard, “isn’t it?”

_It would seem so…we tried to stop it, but it was too much even for me._

Aziraphale felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. That same deep voice he heard before, but he wasn’t really _hearing_ it, was he? No, the room was silent, save for the creaking of the door that seemed ready to break.

“Who’s there?”

_The only other one who’s always been there, I knew you’d be able to understand me, Sunshine._

“Eve!”

___

  
** _Wednesday October 28th, 1987. 9:37pm_ **

All was quiet in the flat, not a noise to be heard aside from the usual rumblings of the London streets. Crowley had already drunk himself to sleep and was as dead to the world as an immortal being could be without actually _being_ dead. And that suited him just fine, for now, thank you very much.

He was so dead to the world he couldn’t possibly notice the ivy creeping through his hallway at a breakneck pace3.

He was so dead to the world he didn’t feel the vines start to coil and twist around his legs, creeping up towards his torso and his neck, winding around his arms and locking them to his sides.

He was so dead to the world that he didn’t register being lifted into the air; his back pressing flush to the ceiling.

He was so dead to the world that the only thing that _did_ manage to wake him up was the vines twisting around his throat and squeezing tight enough to break a human spine.

Amber eyes shot open, blown full past the whites. Absolute panic sets in, sweat immediately rolling along the brow. He struggles, but the Ivy is squeezing so tight he can’t even snap. It’s wound its way around and in between his long spindle fingers; even between his toes. It’s wound around his head, across his face; mouth, nose, ears, everything blocked off by thick English greenery. The more he struggles, the more he hears the telltale cracking and splintering of his bones.

He screams, nothing comes out. He’s lucky he doesn’t need to breathe. He does the only thing he can do.

He _believes_ with everything he can that this pain and this plant _will not do him in_, and he waits.

___

  
** _Monday October 26th, 1987. 11:45pm_ **

Two demons lurk on the outskirts of Mayfair. They’ve been lurking since around noon but have been pacing themselves accordingly. A demon can be rather patient when the need arises.

They’re watching a very specific building; an awful thing of stone and windows. Watching and waiting.

“Approaching midnight now, odds of him coming back ‘round are slimmer by the minute,” says the first one, who is not short.

“What we doin’ this for anyway?” asks the one who is not tall.

The first, by the name of Hastur, takes a long drag from his cigarette, “Revenge, Ligur, we’re doing this for revenge.”

“Revenge?” Ligur asks, “What, did Crowley do something good?”

“No, he did something bad.”

“Well, that’s alright then, innit?”

“No, I mean, not bad as in good but bad as in bad.”

“Yea, that’s what I mean, that’s what we do.”

“Bad as in an affront to me _specifically _Ligur, blasted English language can’t work your way around shit.”

“Are you still on about that Ozzy business? Dunno why you don’t like him, might as well be one of us–“

“No amount of biting the heads off of bats can make a _human_ one of us.”

“You’re just upset because he didn’t like you. Liked me well enough.”

“Yes, Ligur, and I’m absolutely thrilled for you at that,” Hastur started, flicking his spent cigarette onto the sidewalk, littering being part of a demon’s job description, “This is about _more _than that. It’s about him getting to galivant about up here like the flash bastard he is, it’s about me not being able to go fifteen minutes without hearing someone gushing about the fucking M25 and how _horrible _it is. It’s about him generally being the most annoying individual I’ve ever had the displeasure of knowing. But we know his weakness now.”

“What, you mean his friend?”

“What do you mean, what friend? Demons don’t have friends.”

“I saw him the other day, hanging out with one of them angels, Azerfel? Aziraphael? I don’t know his name.”

“Ha, a demon friends with an angel?” Hastur scoffed, “Even Crowley wouldn’t stoop so low. No, the other day when we phoned via his television box, you saw the room with the lush greenery as clearly as I did.”

“Ah yea, the plants,” Ligur grinned evilly, “Misses the old garden, gone native.”

“Exactly,” Hastur reaches down and pulls a beautiful English Ivy already nestled in a plant pot from nowhere, “So we’re gonna teach him a lesson about going native. We’ll see how he likes paperwork since he can’t be bothered to actually do any.”

“A lesson? Oh yeah, this’ll be fun.”

Hastur concentrates his energies into his hand, summoning a tidy ball of hellfire. Under his ministrations it fades from a glowing orange to a deep royal purple, taking on more of a consistency of water. He holds the orb above the ivy and slowly lets it pour through his fingers onto the plant, which wilts and turns brown as the substance soaks into its roots.

“If this works like it should, he’ll have three days at most before it takes him.” Hastur grins, a small maggot wriggling out from between his teeth.

“And then at least 20 years in the Department of Corporations.” Ligur adds.

Hastur places the cursed ivy on the pavement near the front door of the complex, and the two sink back into the ground, laughing the entire time.

____  
**Friday October 30th, 1987. 10:10pm**_

_…And so, I pulled you in here, before it could get to you, and we barricaded the door. We haven’t been able to come up with a plan to find Gardener, but whatever is happening, we can all feel that he is weak._

Aziraphale stares out the window at Mayfair below. The door is holding better now, with a bit of angelic intervention. He looks around the room at the trembling plants, trembling with a different fear than the one they’ve grown accustomed to.

“This has to be the work of another demon; it’s got demonic signatures all over it. The question is how we get past it.”

Aziraphale has always been clever, despite what any outside observer might think4.

“How did it get in here anyway?”

_We believe he found it outside, looking quite disheveled, and he brought it here to try to bring it back to health._

“He does have a soft spot for you plants, though I doubt he’d ever admit it willingly.”

At least he knew he’d been right to worry. Aziraphale mentally chastised himself for not coming when he first felt something amiss. Now he’d be lucky if his – no, not his, _the_ – the demon survived this.

The angel’s brow creases as he thinks. A flaming sword might be useful right about now, but that went out the window millennia ago. No, he’d have to think of something else. This Ivy is obviously cursed, but what does it take for a demon to perform a curse like this? Is the occult energy in the plant weak to the same types of things occult beings are?

If so, what can he use?

He could unleash his angelic fury on the plant, but there would be no guarantee that Crowley or the other plants wouldn’t be caught in the crossfire. Not to mention the risk of leveling a city block when all he’s trying to do is get rid of a particularly pesky weed.

His eyes drift around the room, searching for…well…anything at this point. Crowley keeps such a minimalist aesthetic, even in this room there’s naught but the plants and a little table. Nothing he could truly fashion into a holy weapon on such short notice.

Then he sees a glint of artificial green in the moonlight, right next to the one of the plant pots.

The plant mister; still filled with water. That’s something he can work with.

_What do you plan to do with that?_

“Well, I guess,” Aziraphale says, before closing his eyes to send up a quick prayer, “I’m making it up as I go.”

___

  
** _Thursday October 29th, 1987. 10:03pm_ **

Over twenty-four hours.

An _entire day_ Crowley had been locked in this verdant version of his own personal hell. Tears had carved a path down his face as he continued to try to scream; not that anyone could hear him if he did. He wouldn’t give up. Aziraphale would notice he was missing and come for him, surely. Hopefully. Possibly?

Didn’t do to deal in hypotheticals, all he could do was hold on to what he had left. And if this was all the ivy had, well, it would take a lot more than that to discorporate the likes of Anthony J. Crowley.

It was about then that he felt the sharp jagged pangs in his legs.

The ivy had started to sprout _thorns_. Three-inch-long _serrated _thorns.

He tried screaming again, still no sound, still no breath. The vines wound even tighter as more and more thorns sprouted from them. They cut through the tendons of his toes, the muscle of his calves, all the way up his legs. They continued growing, slicing into his wrists, between his ribs, along the muscles of his neck and jaw.

His eyes were wide with panic, with pain, with pure fear. His face red and mottled, straining against the vines covering his mouth, trying to get any semblance of sound out. A demon may be a demon, but corporations are still somewhat human. And in this instance, all his body wanted to do was scream until he had no voice left.

He felt a thorn slice into his windpipe, another through the cartilage of his shoulders. He couldn’t be positive, but he might be missing an earlobe at this point. He could feel his muscles attempting and failing to shake, held fast and impaled by the thorns and the vines. He was burning everywhere, held together on nothing but a steadfast belief.

He would _not _discorporate, he would _not _leave his angel.

His angel would find him, he just had to _believe_.

___

** _  
Friday October 30th, 1987. 11:32am_ **

Aziraphale was pacing.

It was not a habit he tended to do, but something just would not sit right. He was worried, not that that was anything different, he worried quite a bit. But right now he had a _specific_ worry.

“This is silly,” he told himself for the fifth time that morning5, “You just saw him less than a week ago, there’s no need to be like this.”

The angel had been grasped by a creeping fear that something was amiss; something involving a very specific demon. He’d tried to call, three times now, straight to the ansaphone. This was more than a little unusual for Crowley.

“Oh, but he could just be busy,” Aziraphale said to nobody, because nobody was there6, “But it isn’t like him not to answer his phone.”

He puttered around for a few more hours, growing more and more worried as the day went on. He came to a decision: If Crowley did _not _phone him back by 8:30 he would just have to go to his flat and tell him to his face how upset that made him.

Yes, this was a perfectly good plan where absolutely nothing could go wrong.

___

  
** _Friday October 30th, 1987. 6:46pm_ **

Crowley was weak. He could barely see anymore.

His tear ducts had dried up and were burning along with the rest of him; he could only remember one time where he’d ever hurt quite this badly, and it had never been an experience he wanted to relive.

He’d given up on trying to scream hours ago, his energy drained from the loss of blood. He might not need most human things to survive (such as breathing or a heartbeat), but his corporation still felt the weakness. He felt cold but was sweating bullets. No equilibrium to be had in this state. Crowley swore he could feel the blood coagulating around the thorns, which at the moment were content to just exist, stabbed into him like a thousand knives.

Excruciating was an understatement; he couldn’t keep this up forever.

Someone had been out for revenge and had known exactly how to get to him; that would have to be remedied if he ever made it out of here.

It would be so easy to just let go, wouldn’t it? Just fall into the sleep of death. Not like he’d _actually _die; he’d just be stuck in about 40 years’ worth of paperwork for a new corporation.

But who knew what he’d come back as? Who knew if they’d even _let_ him come back? Hell wasn’t exactly forthcoming with physical corporations these days, and it would be a lovely excuse to put him on desk duty.

He didn’t want that, didn’t want to be away from earth and the humans with their cars and music and television programs. And his stuffy angel who was never his; what would Aziraphale do if they sent someone else in Crowley’s place?

No, he had to hold on, however difficult it was to–

Searing, white hot pain interrupted the thoughts before he could finish them. Not content to stab into him, the vines had renewed their onslaught, moving and writhing, sawing into him with those serrated thorns.

He had to hold on…had to hold on…

But the pain was too much.

As he slipped into unconsciousness, only one word, one name, flashed through his mind, along with a face he so cared about, with its halo of white-blonde curls and ocean blue eyes.

_Aziraphale…_

And Crowley was gone.

___

  
** _Friday October 30th, 1987. 10:15pm_ **

Aziraphale brandished the mister as he slowly opened the door. He wasn’t sure if occult-influenced plants had the same weakness to Holy Water as demons did, but this was the gambit he was making.

The Ivy had overgrown the entire flat by this point, writhing and crawling along every surface. It almost looked like the room was _breathing_ with the amount of movement going on.

“Now listen here,” Aziraphale said, with only a slight tremor to his voice, “I’ll give you one chance to get in line, or I’m afraid I’ll have to use this!” He brandished the spray bottle of Holy Water in front of him the way an action hero in a movie might brandish a gun7.

The ivy only writhed in response, coiling and twisting, vines moving closer to Aziraphale with each passing second.

“I told you, one chance,” he aimed the spray nozzle at the vine closest to him, “You can continue, in fact I _invite _you to. Please, it would make my day, really it truly would.”

The vine rose into the air, much like a cobra ready to strike. The irony, of course, was not lost on Aziraphale.

Hoping against hope that it would work, he squeezed the trigger on his Holy Water gun. A fine mist wafted over the menacing vine, seemingly having no effect.

“Well, worth a shot anyway.”

The vine coiled back and lunged, Aziraphale winced and closed his eyes – but the impact never came.

He opened one eye and saw tendrils of light all around the living room. Just a tiny mist of Holy Water and the ivy was melting. Sparking out into oblivion, never to be seen again.

Immediately he went in search of Crowley, knowing the demon had to be somewhere. Best bet would usually be the bedroom, he did love his sleep. He hurried past the sparking vines down the hallway past the statue (only giving it a second look instead of the usual three or four hard stares) and threw open the door to the bedroom. What he saw almost brought him to his knees.

Crowley was there, but only barely. The floor was covered in the demon’s blood, the vines had him lashed to the ceiling. Aziraphale could already tell by the strange angles how broken Crowley’s body must be, he was filled with a very sudden anger that Crowley’s own side could do this to him. He put that aside, there was more important work to be done. He could have a breakdown about this entire day later.

The sparks caught up with him and he stomped them out, not wanting them to make their way up to Crowley in case the effect of the water transferred over. 

Would be ironic, given their conversation twenty years ago.

Without its host to keep it aloft, the ivy’s grip on Crowley released, and a quick miracle gave him a soft landing on his bed.

Aziraphale hurried over to him, already forming the healing magic in his mind.

“Oh, my dear, who did this to you,” the angel’s hands, glowing with ethereal light, hovered over the lacerations on Crowley’s neck, carefully stitching them back together and re-forming his spine. Aziraphale continued, with absolute focus, until he could tell for a fact that the internal wounds had been cauterized and the bones had been healed.

It was a lot of damage, and at this point his reserve of miracles was almost empty. He thought briefly about whatever the note from Gabriel he was sure to get would say, then realized he quite frankly didn’t care at the moment.

The flat was a mess, and the further tools he needed to heal the smaller wounds the human way were at the bookshop. He scooped Crowley up in his arms and, using the last bit of ethereal energy he could muster, transported them both to the little flat above his bookshop.

\---

Healing takes time, in immortals as well as all creatures. Upon arriving back to the bookshop, Aziraphale had dressed the rest of Crowley’s wounds as best he could, hoping (but not daring to pray; She needn’t know about this) against hope that it would be enough. That his healing had been enough.

Once he was satisfied that he’d done all he could do, he did the only other thing he could think to do. He went downstairs to the backroom of the bookshop, sat in his favorite wingback chair, and cried. Cried for what felt like days; but in reality, was only a few hours. He couldn’t afford to waste time. Crowley needed him, and he would make sure the demon pulled through this.

Corporations were surprisingly resilient when properly taken care of, even losing an insane amount of blood and being cut off from oxygen for several days wouldn’t quite be enough to fully discorporate a particularly ornery celestial being from one.

Even knowing this; even being able to sense the bit of a spark left inside of Crowley’s body, things were still touch and go for a few days. Aziraphale had moved his chair into the upstairs flat and stayed by Crowley’s side. He’d sit and read, he’d redress Crowley’s wounds, but mostly he’d watch. Watch for any sign of life from his dearest and oldest friend.

The bookshop didn’t open, didn’t need to. This was far more important.

On the fourth day, just as dawn was breaking, pushing darkness back from the sky and leading in the light, Aziraphale heard a faint, but unmistakable, intake of breath.

“’Z-‘Ziraphale,” said a voice that was more a rasp than an actual sound. One might not even hear if one weren’t listening with the intensity of a burning sun.

Aziraphale dropped his book to the floor, not caring for its well-being, and rushed to Crowley’s side, “I’m here, Crowley, I’m right here,” the angel couldn’t stop himself, he ran a hand through the demon’s sweat-soaked hair, pushing it back out of his eyes, “you’re ok, my dear, you’re going to be fine.”

Crowley was shivering, a fever no doubt. Coming back from something like that was bound to take a toll. Aziraphale could only hope that the shock passed quickly.

“Hurts like a…a…,” the demon groaned, being kind enough not to mention anything about Aziraphale’s hand carding through his hair, “…like whatever things hurt like.”

“That’s to be expected, my dear,” every shiver that ran through Crowley broke Aziraphale’s heart just a little more, “a few minutes longer I daresay you’d have discorporated.”

“Nope, couldn’t,” Crowley said as he leaned almost imperceptibly into the angel’s touch.

“Couldn’t?” Aziraphale asked, confused.

“Couldn’t do it,” Crowley’s breath was ragged at best, barely a whisper at worst, “leave you here, angel. Couldn’t leave you here.”

Aziraphale’s hand stilled. The implications of this train of thought were not lost on the angel. That certain thing they’d been dancing around for centuries. For millennia. Spoken silently between oysters and crepes; a leather satchel of books and an old tartan thermos, but never, ever spoken aloud.

“Crowley? Dear boy I do believe you’re more than a bit delusional,” Aziraphale tried to steer the conversation away, he wasn’t ready for this, they couldn’t _do _anything about this.

He wasn’t brave enough yet.

“Can’t…leave you here,” the demon continued, slight traces of tears creeping out through his closed eyes, “gotta stay, gotta protect you. Nobody else to.”

Aziraphale sighed, of course Crowley would think himself responsible for the angel’s well-being. How many times now had the demon crashed into his life right when he needed him most? The dashing and debonair hero Aziraphale so often read about, who was now the most vulnerable the angel had ever seen him.

Crowley drifted into sleep, and Heaven knows he needed it. Perhaps this would be a good time to get a cup of tea; Aziraphale was beginning to feel quite tired himself.

He stood to leave when Crowley reached out and grabbed his wrist.

“Stay, please,” Aziraphale looked down to see Crowley’s eyes were open, brimming with unshed tears. The pain in them palpable, so much so he could reach out and touch it. Neither of them mentioned the connection between hand and wrist, the entire moment too fragile.

Crowley’s eyes were hazy with exhaustion and he was already drifting back to sleep; but Aziraphale could see the uncertainty and need in them, nonetheless. He sighed and sat on the bed, lifting Crowley’s head to rest in his lap, resuming his ministrations through Crowley’s hair.

“I won’t be going anywhere, my dear,” the angel said, trying very hard not to let his voice crack, “not until you’re back on your feet again.”

“Good,” Crowley said as the tension released from his shoulders. He drifted further and further into slumber as Aziraphale murmured a quick blessing for pleasant dreams. The angel tried to fight back the tears pricking at the corner of his eyes. He failed when he heard Crowley whisper, barely audible, “gotta keep you safe…I love you, angel.”

And there it was, this thing that they cannot give voice to. This thing that could be the end of them both and yet is so much bigger than either of them. This thing that has been building and growing for the better part of six thousand years. Rolling and thundering towards them, the crash at the end inevitable.

They’ve danced around it for so long, pushing and pulling like the moon and the tide. Here it is now, laid bare, in this tiny flat above the bookshop.

“I love you too, dearest,” Aziraphale whispered almost reverently before placing a soft kiss to the sleeping demon’s forehead, knowing it can never go further than that.

When Crowley wakes back up, there won’t be a conversation about it. They’ll go on like it never happened. They’ll move through their lives as they always have, albeit in a slightly closer orbit now.

They’ll go to dinners and they’ll bicker and argue as they always have8, nothing will change.

Nothing _can _change. This will have to be enough.

___

1 – The plants were actually remarkably self-sufficient, given their varying levels of sentience. Particularly the Devil’s Ivy, which had sentience on par with a human at this point. Crowley might have noticed this, if he could’ve ever been bothered to pay real attention to them.

2 – Bentley, of course, _did _usually know better. This did not extend to Queen, which was the Bentley’s personal favorite. And no amount of threatening or cajoling could get the Bentley to stop blasting their beloved Freddie’s voice through the streets of London.

3 – For Ivy, a breakneck pace was hardly a crawl. But still, what would _you_ call it if you saw ivy actively slithering across the floor like a snake?

4 – Whether or not this is a carefully cultivated appearance, not unlike Crowley’s often faked calm-and-cool demeanor is nobody’s business but his own.

5 – This was, in fact, the 23rd time he had told himself this since Wednesday night.

6 – This is not to be confused with a particular party he attended in Ithaca circa 1173 BC where he got increasingly drunk and might have talked the man of the house’s ear off about a certain wily demon who’d been giving him trouble lately.

7 – His entire frame of reference for this was one movie from 1979. He couldn’t remember the name of it, but it had something to do with spies, spaceships, and a man with very shiny metal teeth.

8 – Including a particularly raging argument a few weeks later, when Crowley stops the Bentley in the middle of the street to steal a very sad looking Fiddle Leaf Fig off of someone’s porch. He insists it needs a stern talking to, Aziraphale just wishes he’d learn his lesson. Crowley names it Puck.

**Author's Note:**

> References include Indiana Jones, The Mummy, The Book of Genesis, The Odyssey, Clint Eastwood, and James Bond. Probably more. Little Shop of Horrors if you count the title xD
> 
> If you made it this far, thanks for reading! FEED ME COMMENTS AND KUDOS SEYMOUR! (if you like)
> 
> If you want some softness go look through the rest of the Weeklyverse everything else I write is soft this was way out of my comfort zone.
> 
> Come scream with me on Tumblr - MovesLikeBucky.Tumblr.com :D


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